by Jake
“Shit!” Pickett said. People started to panic at the sight of the undead arm. “Nice and slow people, nice and slow,” he continued, still motioning the crowd toward the stairs and trying to keep them calm.
Cutler rushed out of the parlor and into the kitchen where he grabbed a large chopping knife from the counter. He returned to the front and sliced through the decomposing arm. Thick black blood sprayed the ceiling and dripped down Cutler's face and beard as he stabbed the arm repeatedly. The undead's rotten stump withdrew, but two more took its place. The hole grew larger as more undead hands ripped away at the wood, exploiting the weak spot and pushing their way through the barricade into the parlor. Complete chaos ensued.
People began to scream and rush up the stairs. A woman was pushed to the ground and nearly trampled to death, but a young man pulled her out of the fray. More undead were attracted to the growing host outside and continued to rip away wood from the saloon. Undead arms from everywhere were bursting through the barricades as the onslaught of undead attackers continued.
An undead store clerk managed to crawl through the hole and the Gunman fired, blowing off its head. He fired again as another undead took its place. The bullet passed through its eye, causing its head to explode against the wall.
Cutler continued to hack with the knife, chopping off hands and slicing into forearms. He stabbed eyes and fiercely bayonetted any exposed undead body parts that appeared. Eric ran out of a back room with a fire axe he had found in the kitchen.
“Will this help?” he asked Cutler.
Cutler grinned maniacally. “Definitely!” he yelled, and Eric threw him the axe. Cutler began to wield it like a lumberjack and swung it wildly with both arms. His precision didn’t matter and undead body parts rained to the ground. The undead numbers continued to grow outside as they surrounded the entire building.
Johnny fought off the undead Chinese miner as it broke through a barricaded window in the back. He plunged a knife deep into the top of its skull and twisted. Another undead man grabbed him from behind and savagely tore into his neck, blanketing the hallway in arterial red blood. He tried to push it away, but was quickly overpowered, and fell to the ground as it bit into his stomach.
Pickett and the Gunman emptied their revolvers, but it was no use as more undead continued to arrive during the onslaught, attracted to the screaming.
Cutler hacked again through an undead’s neck. “Upstairs! We have to cut them off!”
Pickett reloaded and continued to fire as the undead bodies piled higher around him. The townspeople had already moved to the second floor, leaving the Gunman, Pickett, Eric and Cutler to fend them off. They moved toward the stairs and covered each other’s tracks, each taking a turn fighting as the others reloaded their weapons. Undead poured into the parlor from every direction and cut off any hope they had of escape.
Cutler walked backward up the stairs and swung the axe, hacking and chopping at the steps in front of him. Cracked boards and wood flew in all directions. His huge arms smashed the axe through the staircase, like a child smashing a small wooden toy.
The Gunman and Pickett covered him as he worked to prevent the undead from reaching the second floor, and gun smoke filled the room in a haze of death.
They finally reached the second floor and all of the stairs had been hacked away by Cutler, leaving only cracked boards and splinters to hang loosely from the wall. Cutler now stood at the top with his axe in hand, grinning deeply and bathed in sweat. Below them, the undead army swarmed and reached upward for them, unable to climb up the wall. “Well…” Cutler said placing his hands on his knees, “…that should do it.”
Eric patted the big man on the back, smiling joyously.
“For now anyways,” the Gunman replied bleakly. He turned and disappeared down the second floor hallway, leaving the others standing in the balcony overlooking the parlor.
Pickett slid against the wall and sat down, finally taking the time to catch his breath. He slowly began to reload his revolver with old, tired hands. “Who knows how long it will be before they find a way to get up here.” He slid the last round in and holstered his weapon. “In the meantime, we should take stock of our supplies, especially ammo.”
Cutler tore off a piece of his shirt and ripped it in two, and then wrapped it around his palms, bandaging wounds from the axe handle. Eric sat across from him, staring blankly at the floor, realization settling down on his shoulders like a lead weight. “What the fuck is going on? I mean…what the fuck is going on?!”
“Calm down, son,” Cutler said. “The best thing you can do in a situation like this is to collect your thoughts.”
Eric took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to slow down his racing heart. “What are those things?” he asked, finally able to calm his nerves.
The Gunman reappeared from the hallway, carrying his Winchester and an arm full of ammo. “Whatever they are…” He cocked the rifle, “…we have one advantage.”
“Oh, and what's that?” Pickett asked him.
“Bullets,” he said, and dropped a bag full of ammo onto the floor.
Pickett grabbed an extra revolver from the Gunman’s bag and checked the weight. “Do you always travel with this many guns and ammo?” he asked. The Gunman only smiled at him and handed him some extra bullets. “I’ll take that as a yes,” Pickett said, and then handed the extra gun to a man sitting in the corner, a middle-aged priest with a rosary in his hand. He looked up at the weapon and scoffed at it. He had never used a gun in his entire life.
“You really think bullets will protect us? Defend us from this evil?” Father Pearce said.
“I don't see why not,” the Gunman said, “They’ve been effective so far by my standards.”
“We won't last the night. These demons are the work of the devil. Sure, you've killed some, but more will take their place, spreading like a plague.”
“Maybe you can get your god to lend us a hand, Father,” Cutler said as he pointed toward the ceiling sarcastically.
“Mark my words, men. You should fear the devil. These demons were sent here for one singular purpose, to consume our very souls,” he said, and crossed himself with the rosary.
Pickett slipped the extra pistol into the front of his belt, knowing that he would need it later.
The Gunman rolled his eyes at the priest’s words and leaned over the railing, overlooking the parlor below. He watched as a sea of undead clawed at the wall, and scraped and cracked their finger nails against the wood. Their dead black eyes stared up at him, and he knew that this was far from over.
• • •
The Gunman awoke at dawn with his hand resting firmly on the grip of his gun. He had spent most of the night watching the undead in the parlor and had fallen asleep slumped against the wall. He had studied them with his sharpened eyes, trying to find a weakness, but there was only one that he knew of. Shoot them in the head. Long ago, he had made a living with bullets, but she had changed all of that, made him into a better man. A man who knew how to till the earth with his bare hands and make a life tending the land. Now, after all of these years, his skill with a gun would be an ally, and these metal death-dealers would never leave his side again.
The ravenous undead remained in the parlor below, unable to reach the second floor, and moaned hungrily each time somebody peered over the railing at them. The Gunman took a quick look, as if he was expecting them to have magically disappeared while he was sleeping. He sighed and turned down the hallway, where he found Rose, already awake and watching the sunrise through a dirty window.
“Sleep well?” he asked her, watching as the sun crested beyond the horizon, slowly turning shades of purple, orange and yellow.
“I guess that’s a relative term in this situation,” she said, and smiled dryly. “My brother is still out there somewhere.” Seeing the Gunman's confused expression, she explained, "I took him home last night...to put him to bed." The Gunman's face relaxed as she placed her hands on the
windowsill and shifted her weight from one leg to the other. “And I have no idea if he is still alive.”
The sun crested the horizon and reflected brilliantly through the window. “I’m sure he’ll be alright,” the Gunman said, hoping to comfort her. He edged closer to the window and glanced at the street below, where several undead were wandering aimlessly. He looked over at Rose. Her hair was unkempt and the blue dress she wore hung loosely from her shoulder. He stared at her tender neck and wanted to place his hand on the small of her back, but instead put his arm around her shoulder, hesitantly. She leaned into his chest and started to cry, and together they watched through the window as the sun finished its climb over the edge of the horizon and hung itself strikingly against the soft morning blue.
• • •
The day trickled passed as they waited on the second floor of the Bucket of Blood saloon, stranded and unable to escape from the undead. Time had stood still and there was no telling how long it would be before this would be over. They had quickly consumed what little food they could find. They had no water, except for some that was salvaged from the bottom of a wash bucket or two and crudely filtered through a dirty rag.
The Gunman and Cutler spent most of their time looking out of the windows, still hoping to find a means for escape, but there was none to be had. There was no way to leave through the parlor, too many undead blocked their way. Escaping down the outside of the building through a window would make too much noise, possibly attracting more of them.
As the evening approached, the Gunman slung the rifle over his shoulder and patrolled the hallway. He stopped in the first doorway and saw Markley lying on the bed. Rose sat beside him and held a wet rag to his forehead. He had a rolling fever and soaked the sheets with sweat. The Gunman stepped into the room and stood at the end of the bed. “What happened to him?” he asked.
“I don't know. He was fine. I don’t understand how he could get sick like this,” she said, and then squeezed the rag out into a bucket.
Andrew stepped behind the Gunman in the doorway.
“Can I talk to you?” he asked under his breath. “It's important.”
The Gunman nodded and followed him into the hallway.
“Something has to be done about the Deputy.”
“What do you mean?”
“You saw what happened to that boy after he got bit,” Andrew told him.
“Of course I did,” the Gunman said.
“That same thing is what happened to my wife.”
“And?”
“And, we have to take care of this. The deputy told me one of those things bit him in the shoulder.”
The Gunman took a hard look at Andrew, knowing exactly what he was thinking. “You suggesting something doc?”
“Well--,” Andrew said as he looked down at the Gunman's revolvers.
“Look doc, I know why you're concerned.” The Gunman stared at Markley through the doorway and watched Rose wipe away more sweat from his forehead. “Seems cruel just to shoot a man on chance, doc.”
“I'm not taking any chances. First Rebecca, then that boy. This has to be stopped. We have no idea what this is.”
Pickett stepped into the hallway beside them. “I agree.” He stood there holding his revolver, ready to take action.
“I'll do it,” Andrew said, anxiously.
Pickett held out the gun hesitantly and gave it to him handle first. “It's loaded. Be careful, doc.”
Andrew turned and looked through the doorway at Markley, and pushed his glasses up his sweaty nose. He walked into the room with Pickett close on his heels.
Rose wrung out the small rag again and carefully placed it back onto Markley’s forehead. “I need you to come with me, Rose.”
“Why?” she questioned and looked at Andrew, and then the gun in his hand. “What are you doing?”
“Just come with me,” Pickett said as he moved closer.
“No, you can't. You wouldn't!”
Andrew moved next to the bed, tense with anticipation. “We have to. We can’t take any chances.”
“He'll be fine,” she pleaded.
“We can't. I’m sorry,” Pickett said, and gently grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the door.
“You don't know what you're doing!” She started to cry as Pickett led her into the hallway and shut the door behind him, leaving Andrew alone with the deputy.
Andrew stood by the bed and gripped the gun tightly in his hand. Markley’s breathing, now slow and heavy, marked the sickness that had overtaken him. His face was gaunt, and blue veins could be seen through his yellowed skin, like curled tendrils of a dying plant trying to escape. He was slowly transforming and Andrew knew that he had no other choice. He pulled the pillow out from underneath his head and smothered it over his face, and then shoved the gun barrel deep against his forehead.
Rose and the Gunman leaned against the wall in the hallway, silently waiting. Rose jumped at the sound of the gunshot and tears began to streak down her face. A moment later, Andrew walked out of the room and paused in the doorway. He took a deep breath and wiped his gun hand on his shirt. He handed the smoking revolver to Pickett and walked over to Rose with his head hung low.
“I'm deeply sorry,” He said to her, and then disappeared around the corner and went into a distant room.
• • •
The Gunman walked to the railing and reassessed the bloodthirsty horde teeming below in the parlor, still clawing and ripping away wood from the walls. Father Pearce stepped beside him and looked at the undead with pure disdain. He gripped the railing with his old hands and spoke as if preaching for an unholy communion. “When hell is overrun. Satan will unleash the dead upon the earth, who will feast on the flesh of the living,” he prophesized.
Eric sat behind them listening. He was completely horrified by these words. “Thanks, Father. That's…reassuring.”
Father Pearce turned to the young man with a stern look in his eyes. “We have all sinned. And these demons could be our punishment.” He turned back to the parlor and began to pray with his eyes closed, clutching the rosary with both hands.
“We're not going to last too long up here. Nowhere near enough bullets to blast our way out, that’s for sure,” Sheriff Pickett said as he joined them.
“What are we gonna do?” Eric asked. “We can’t stay up here forever.”
The Gunman still watched the undead swarming below him. He knew that any type of escape would be risky, but staying there much longer would be even more dangerous. It was never good when too many people were trapped together, and without food or water, it wouldn’t be long before they would start to turn on each other.
“Rooftops,” the Gunman said, more to himself than anybody else.
“Rooftops?” Pickett asked.
“We can use the rooftops," the Gunman said, "That’s how we escape. Look for food. Maybe survivors,” he told them.
“It's too dangerous. There's too many of em',” Eric said as he walked over to the railing, watching the undead and fearing what would happen if they went outside. “We have no idea how many of those things are out there.”
Cutler stood up from where he was sitting and swung the bloody axe over his shoulder. “Count me in. No way in hell's hosanna I'm gonna stay here and wait for them nasties to crawl up here and eat us.”
Eric glanced back down at the undead horde. “Good point.”
“What about you, Father?” Cutler asked the priest. “Comin' with?”
Father Pearce stood up straight, his old knees and back cracking loudly, and he adjusted his clerical collar. “What better way to protect my flock than lead them into hell myself.”
Pickett held out the revolver to Pearce again, but he waved it off. “No, son. The Lord will protect me. He will look out for us all,” he said.
Cutler patted Pearce on the back with a big grin plastered on his face. “Whatever you say gramps.”
• • •
The Gunman drifted down the silent hallway
as night fell, and looked into each room as he passed. All of them were full of people that had found refuge from the undead; men, women, children and the elderly. All of them had entered a silent state of shock, and it was hard to say how much more they could take.
He looked into the last room at the end of the hallway and saw Rose sitting in a chair, looking out of a window. He paused in the doorway and watched her for a moment, and then stepped inside next to her. Outside, darkness had enveloped the town, and several buildings glowed ominously as moonlight bathed their rooftops.
Undead still roamed the streets below, some consuming half-eaten bodies, others making their way toward other buildings, looking for food, clawing on doors, breaking through windows.
“What are we going to do?” she asked him.
“The only thing we can do,” he said, “Survive.”
“How? We don't have any water. And we already ran out of food.”
The Gunman stood there, silently looking at the street. “We will have to go out there and get some.”
“I'm coming with you,” she said without hesitation.
The Gunman kept staring, his gaze moving from one building to the next. “No. Only a few of us are going. We’ll have to move quickly.”
“But I want to help,” she told him.
“I know, and you can. Stay here and keep an eye on things. Use that cannon of yours if you need to,” he told her, pointing to the shotgun across her lap.
“Do you really think anybody else is even alive out there?”
“Can’t say,” he said grimly. Something caught his eye below, but it was just another undead, feeding on an arm. “But we're still alive,” he told her reassuringly. “Hell may have opened and spit out these things against us…but I sure as hell ain’t going down without a fight.”
“Find my brother. Bring him back,” she pleaded. “Please.”
“I’ll try my best.” He turned to leave but stopped, and then gave Rose a handful of shotgun shells from his satchel. “Keep your gun close, at all times,” he said. “We'll be back by dawn.” He walked toward the door, but glanced briefly over his shoulder before leaving. Rose cocked the shotgun and set it against the wall, and then looked out the window and continued her silent vigil. She was a strong young woman, a born leader with raw nerve. He left and walked down the hallway, but not without wanting to stay and spend the rest of the night by her side.
